


after the bombs

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, SLIGHTLY into the future at least, and if the writers won't do anything about his emotional constipation then by GOD i will, listen bellamy needs to TALK TO SOMEONE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:51:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: Bellamy draws a breath. It's slow and shallow, like the movement alone physically hurts him. He exhales, his chest deflating just as slowly."Three months since Praimfaya."Monty holds his breath, and waits.





	after the bombs

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't a 2199-day time jump, but it IS three months, so there's that.
> 
> (title from The Decemberists song)

 

 

 

**90 DAYS LATER**

 

 

Monty supposes he should feel grateful to be on the Ark.

 

It was easier to feel that way before. Before getting sent down to the ground. Before, when all he knew was the space station's dull grey walls, the muted thud of the aluminium floors under his feet.

 

But after a year of greenery and fresh air and the lightly salted wind on his face, the Ark just seems like one big, endless _nothing._

 

He's tasted of the Earth and its simple riches, and, honestly? Bloodthirsty Grounders and black rain aside, nothing quite compares.

 

But at least… at least he has his friends. The only thing that makes getting out of bed worth it, really. Raven's razor sharp wit, keeping everyone on their toes. Emori's quiet confidence, encouraging everyone to keep going. Murphy's lazy drawl, instilling a peculiar but welcome sense of _normality_ amidst the slow toil of reconstructing their lives.

 

 _Harper._ The soothing sound of her voice, like a balm to his unsteady nerves. The gentle caress of her hand against his. Her _smile._

 

And all of them… they have Bellamy.

 

At first, Monty had been worried. He knows he's not the only one, either. He'd seen them when the death wave had hit, once Bellamy had closed that door. Murphy carefully keeping tabs on Bellamy all throughout their short journey to the Ark, slitted eyes narrowed and focused. Raven shooting him concerned glances, even as she'd furiously worked the controls. Even Emori, who's arguably spent the least time with the group… she was about as close to tears as Monty's ever seen her.

 

Ten minutes. That was all it had taken. Bellamy was gone for ten minutes. Raven had gone to find him, and when she'd returned without him, her face sombre but blank, Monty had prepared himself to assume the worst.

 

But then Bellamy strode back in the room, shoulders back and jaw set with determination, instantly firing off demands for systems reports and lists of things to be done. It had been all Monty could do just to keep up with him, as they set about making the Ark liveable again.

 

He hasn't slowed down since, either. He's on the move all the time, checking on progress updates, taking on menial labour tasks without hesitation, stopping to check on Monty's hands, Raven's leg, Emori, and even Echo. (They're adjusting. Emori quicker than Echo — her eyes bright and an inquisitive question always on her lips — but it's still a good sign.)

 

But sometimes, when things are quiet… he disappears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Monty pads around the corner slowly, already knowing what he'll find.

 

Bellamy's back is slumped against the wall, his broad shoulders dropped in a sag as they press against the cold steel. It's getting harder and harder to see his eyes under the growing mass of his thick dark curls — Raven's started cracking jokes about him needing to borrow the elastic bands she uses to secure her ponytails with — but Monty wouldn't be able to right now, anyway. Bellamy's face is turned away as he stares through the glass of the viewing port. His body is motionless, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

 

And the bottle at his side, one hand loosely curled around it. Unopened. Always unopened.

 

Monty clears his throat quietly, before moving forward. "You're not hungry?"

 

Bellamy's head turns in surprise, his dark eyes wide and blinking. "Not really. Why aren't you at dinner?"

 

"Not really hungry, either." Monty lowers himself to the floor, bracing his own back against the wall opposite Bellamy's. Shit, but it's cold. Raven's wary about conserving energy, so they tend to centralise their heating where they need it most. The viewing port doesn't really count as a priority on her list.

 

"You should eat anyway," Bellamy scolds, but there's no heat to it, no edge of _command._ Monty's pretty sure he's not the only one who notices it, either — Bellamy's already turned back to the glass.

 

Carefully, Monty follows his lead. The world that was once set ablaze is now a gentle simmer, tendrils and flashes of bright red licking across an endlessly shifting blanket of burnished orange. Like ocean waves, made of fire.

 

"It's… beautiful," he says reluctantly. How can something so lovely be so terrible? So _destructive_?

 

Bellamy doesn't say anything. Monty thinks his head might just dip ever so slightly.

 

He settles back against the wall, letting his head fall back gently to meet it. "How long more do you think it'll burn?"

 

At first, Bellamy is so silent that Monty can't even detect the sound of his breathing.

 

"However long more it needs to."

 

Monty drags his eyes away from the glass, staring at his leader. His captain. His comrade. His _brother._

 

Suddenly, it hits him that he's never seen Bellamy this way before. The Bellamy he knows is always moving, always charging forward, always coming up with a new plan, always fighting through the blood and the bruises.

 

Always full of hope.

 

This Bellamy looks… _beaten._ Like he's been worn down to the very bone, running on empty for too long.

 

This Bellamy looks like he might never get up again.

 

"Three months."

 

Monty blinks in surprise, his gaze snapping back to Bellamy. His voice is raw.

 

Bellamy draws a breath. It's slow and shallow, like the movement alone physically hurts him. He exhales, his chest deflating just as slowly. "Three months since Praimfaya."

 

Monty holds his breath, and waits.

 

Bellamy swallows, still staring out the window. "I— we've never gone this long without her."

 

A weight drops in Monty's chest, landing silent and still in his gut. A rock sinking to the ocean floor.

 

It's true. Even when Clarke had gone off on her own after Mount Weather, they'd found her after three months.

 

Anything beyond that, even for a single _day —_ it's completely new territory for their little group.

 

For  _Bellamy._

 

Monty swallows, even as his vision blurs. "I've never gone this long without Jasper."

 

Bellamy starts, brows furrowing as he turns away from the window. "Monty—"

 

"No, it's fine," Monty says quickly, shaking his head. "It's— different. Jasper _wanted_ to…" He breaks off, struggling to find the words. "It's different."

 

The silence falls back over them, both of them turning to stare back out the window. In moments like these, Monty usually lets his eyes lapse out of focus, looking without really seeing. He _forces_ himself to see now, tracks every lick and swirl of stirring flame with his eyes, marks it for no reference at all.

 

"I should have told him," he says suddenly, his voice low. He turns to look at Bellamy, the other man's eyes hooded beneath the thick mop of his hair. "He told me that—"

 

_Say you love me. Or you'll regret it, Monty._

 

The words seize in Monty's throat, folding in on themselves inside his mouth.

 

He presses his lips together, abandoning the rest of the sentence and focusing on steadying his breathing instead.

 

After a long moment, Bellamy nods.

 

"He knows, Monty." His voice is quiet, but strong. Sure. "He'd known all along."

 

Monty lets that settle on him for a minute, lets himself soak in the bittersweet comfort of Bellamy's words. Of the truth.

 

He steels himself, and looks up. "Does she?"

 

Bellamy is silent. He's staring off into somewhere. Not out the window, not at the wall, not at Monty. Just… _somewhere._

 

A memory flashes across his mind, fleeting but stark.

 

"The list. The one Raven asked for, when we got back from Azgeda." He tilts his head, frowning. "She put your name on it, didn't she?"

 

Bellamy makes a small noise, something almost like a huff. "She told you?"

 

Monty shakes his head. "No. It just… didn't seem like a very _you_ thing to do." He gives a small smile at the sight of Bellamy's lips tugging sideways, pulling a wry expression. "Didn't seem like a very _her_ thing to do either. Putting her own name on it, I mean."

 

Bellamy's smile fades. He turns away, staring back out the window. "She should be here. She shouldn't have—" He cuts himself off short, scrubbing a hand over his face. "This is all wrong."

 

Monty's brows draw together. "'Wrong'?"

 

Bellamy waves a blind hand to cut him off, the motion vague but rough. "All of this. It's  _her_ plan. She's the one who knows how to _do_ this. I just—"

 

But there's nothing more to it. Bellamy pulls his hands back in, and falls back into silence, just as quickly as he'd fallen out of it.

 

Monty swallows. "You've been with us since we arrived on the ground. You know how to do this, too."

 

Bellamy shakes his head, still not meeting Monty's eye. "It's not the same."

 

"She trusted you. We all do."

 

Bellamy doesn't respond. His face is turned to the side, his hair casting a dark shadow over his eyes.

 

He looks so _small_ like this, folded down and hunched against the curved wall. It's so easy to forget how young Bellamy really is, when he spends most of his time looking after everyone but himself. So easy to forget, when he's constantly shouldering burdens that, in a fair and just world, would be far, _far_ beyond his twenty-four years.

 

Monty wonders when the last time someone gave him a simple _hug_ was.

 

He leans forward, gathering his resolve. "Clarke is gone, Bellamy." He watches Bellamy stiffen, even as he flinches himself.

 

It's been a long, long time since anyone's actually spoken her name out loud.

 

Monty fights off the wet heat pricking at his eyes, and presses on. "She's gone, but she made that choice for _us._ She made that choice because of _you,_ because she _knew_ she could count on you to get us out of there. Like the choice she made to blast off in the dropship. Like the choice she made at Mount Weather. The City of Light!" Monty blows out a breath, both hands trembling. He curls them into fists. "I watched her in there, Bellamy. I saw her _thoughts,_ spelled out in code on a computer screen. Do you want to know what she was thinking of? Who it was that gave her the strength to pull that lever?"

 

Bellamy's head lifts, no more than an inch or two. He's _shocked,_ Monty realises with grim surprise. He's genuinely _taken aback._

 

Monty straightens his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "No matter how many times she lost faith in herself, she never once stopped believing in you." His eyes drop to the bottle at Bellamy's side, to the hand now clenched tightly around it. "You're not alone, Bellamy. I know it feels like there's nothing but darkness. Like you're just counting down the seconds till you give in to it, every minute of every day. But _you're not alone._ " He cocks his head, determined and entreating. "You've been carrying us on your backs since the very beginning. If we're going to survive, _really_ survive, you can't keep pretending everything's okay when it's not. You don't have to _do_ that, not with us. For once in your life, let us carry _you._ "

 

There's a long pause once he's done, the slightest of echoes bouncing off the walls. He forces himself to stay on Bellamy, to keep his eyes focused on his friend's face, downturned and half-hidden in the grey shadows.

 

When the silence settles, Monty exhales, air rushing out of his dry lips. And finally, _finally,_ Bellamy lifts his gaze to meet his.

 

To his surprise, Bellamy's _smiling._

 

He cocks a dark brow, a wry grin on his face. "You done?"

 

Monty blinks — and then he's grinning right back, suddenly breathless with buoying exhilaration. "Pretty much. How'd I do?"

 

"Terrible," Bellamy quips dryly, mouth still stretched with that crooked grin. "Stick to the engineering gig."

 

"Yeah, I'll leave the motivational speeches to you," Monty says easily, leaning back into the wall with a relieved thump.

 

Bellamy glances out the window, and then back at Monty. He starts to say something, and then he stops it.

 

"What?" Monty asks, frowning.

 

Once again, Bellamy's shoulders sag. But this time, the look on his face isn't weighed down by shadows. It's _lighter._

 

"Thank you."

 

Monty's brows shoot up in surprise. He blinks it away quickly, though, recovering within seconds.

 

As much as he feels and experiences the proof of Bellamy's silent appreciation for himself and the rest, he can't think if he's ever heard Bellamy actually _say_ the words out loud.

 

Then again, it's not like problems with emotional expression aren't practically Bellamy Blake's trademark by now.

 

"Anytime," he says slowly. Carefully.

 

They slip into silence again. It's different this time. Comfortable, somehow. Warmer.

 

Monty sighs, suddenly aware of the pangs stirring in his gut. "Maybe I _am_ hungry after all." He glances at Bellamy. "Want to grab what's left of dinner before Murphy snuffs it all?"

 

Bellamy chuckles, but follows Monty's lead in pushing off the wall. "Sure."

 

Once they're both on their feet, Monty pauses, turning to Bellamy.

 

"You _will_ meet again," he says. There's no cheer nor lightness to his tone. Only the steady weight of certainty. "Maybe not this world." He reaches out, tapping against the glass, to the burning planet beyond. "Maybe not this one, either." He turns, looking at Bellamy with quiet confidence. "But you _will._ "

 

Bellamy's eyes are wide, but there's a surprising lack of confusion in his expression. "How do you figure that?"

 

Monty shrugs. "You're Bellamy and Clarke." He allows himself a rueful smile, his eyes crinkling. "It's kind of what you _do_."

 

It doesn't quite manage to make Bellamy laugh. Not much of a smile either, if Monty's being honest.

 

But his eyes are soft, and for the first time in three months, Monty knows he's speaking to the _real_ Bellamy.

 

Bellamy nods — a single dip of his chin. He reaches out to press one hand on Monty's shoulder, squeezing solidly as they both turn away from the viewing window.

 

They've got work to do, and life on this new Ark has only just begun. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [on tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


End file.
